


Biden Dirty

by Diaphenia



Category: Joe Biden as written by The Onion, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, New Year's Resolution, Racism, The Onion, mild RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8108743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diaphenia/pseuds/Diaphenia
Summary: “Look, I don’t like elections either,” Barry said, sitting on the Oval Office’s green couch like a goddamn king. “All that stress. Looking at Paul Ryan’s smug face when the Republicans take the House. And this time, I have to move, make way for Hillary.” He grimaced. “If the electorate can be trusted on this. Otherwise, if Trump wins, I’m going to that secret colony on the moon. I promised Michelle.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laura47](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laura47/gifts).



> Happy New Year's Resolution, Laura47! I have been thinking about your request since I saw your letter before Yuletide even started and I knew I had to do it. And what better time than now, when politics are definitely normal, yes they are. 
> 
>  
> 
> For anyone just tuning in, The Onion's take on [Joe Biden](http://www.theonion.com/tag/joseph-biden)
> 
> Much love to throwingpens and gloriagilbertpatch.

  


  


“Look, I don’t like elections either,” Barry said, sitting on the Oval Office’s green couch like a goddamn king. “All that stress. Looking at Paul Ryan’s smug face when the Republicans take the House. And this time, I have to move, make way for Hillary.” He grimaced. “If the electorate can be trusted on this. Otherwise, if Trump wins, I’m going to that secret colony on the moon. I promised Michelle.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. Cut the bullshit. You and I both know I can’t go back to Scranton.”

“You know you get Secret Service protection for six months after you leave. Surely in your years in office, you’ve saved enough to pay off whatever heavies they’re about to throw at you.”

“They won’t pay you if you don’t do your job, and I haven’t held a job since you were in diapers. I’m not giving in to ‘the man’ just because ‘the people’ elected me. It’s not my fault they did that.”

“I’d like to think it’s the fault of both of us, as well as a small army of community level volunteers.” Barry made a serious face. “And some allegedly corrupt Chicago politicians. Allegedly.”

Joe didn’t want to hear about Rahm, again. The fingerless bastard was never going to the national stage again, that much was sure. Plus, it wasn’t going to solve thing. “You know, I don’t have to leave.”

“I think Kaine would be disappointed. I swear I saw him looking at paint swatches the other day. Eggshell. Ecru. Office colors, Joe.”

Joe’s walls were just barely visible under all those posters from all the concerts he’d been to. There was Cyndi, of course, and Black Sabbath, before they went lame. Those posters were sacred, and they weren’t getting moved so some soccer dad with passable espanol could staple his harmonica to the wall. “I’m going to take that idiot to Vegas, get him hammered, and send him to the champagne room.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.” The strip clubs were hemorrhaging girls to the trade schools lately-- great for them, and lousy for the regulars-- but he was pretty sure Kitty was still working the pole. Kitty would fix Kaine. Well, Kitty and some blow.

***

It was ridiculously easy to sneak into the VP debates. It helped, sometimes, having the title of VP. Mostly when it came to getting laid. Babes were super into it, like when he told them he was going to get subsidized child care for the nation. Single moms didn’t even both to consider that the Republican dicksticks had the House and the Senate, or that Joe had spent more of his terms in office in opium dens than in said office.

It had been too long since he’d gotten laid.

“Fucking focus,” he told himself. He couldn’t think about the molly burning a hole in his pocket. This would be so much easier if he hadn’t smoked a bowl first.

The coed told him he was free to sit in the special seating area, set up to have a great view of Elaine Quijano, the moderator for this shit show.

“It’s such an honor to meet you,” she said, shaking his hand with a real virginal vigor.

“And I’m honored to meet you. Listen, I gotta use the john, if you don’t mind. And while I’m over here, you want to go over the set up of the room with me?”

He jimmied the lock on the back door. Christ, they weren’t even a little bit worried about security here at Longwood-- heh, Joe would show them his _Longwood_. That would shake this bullshit up _and_ solve his dry spell. Longest two weeks of his life.

There they were, across the auditorium, Pence and Kaine. They got podiums, big tall ones, shiny under the lights.

He remembered his own most recent debate against Paul Ryan. It was bullshit he’d had to sit down at a table like a fucking toddler. It was fine, he’d spent most the debate doodling pictures of Paul Ryan as a wiener, drowning in ketchup. Barry had texted his burner phone later that night. _You almost made that gym rat cry._ It was worth it to go to work just to draw more Ryan wieners in the bathrooms.

God, looking at those podiums made Joe think of his ‘08 debate. They’d punished him in ‘12, but it wasn’t like he was going to throw another podium. Palin had been fine, never in harm’s way, even if that audience member had taken a corner to the chin. Shouldn’t have asked about Joe’s side businesses.

Time to do this shit.

Joe strode through the audience. His dramatic entrance stopped Tim Kaine, who was blathering on about boring shit, something about TPP, stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open. But once he realized who Joe was, he started smiling.

“It looks like we have a guest,” Kaine said. “This is exciting. I can’t wait to fill your shoes.”

There was no way some short guy like this could fill Joe’s shoes. Just look at his dick.

Quijano, who was even hotter in person, looked like she’d been goosed. “This is highly irregular.”

“I just wanted to take time out of my busy schedule to assist you on this debate,” Joe said, all smooth like Barry would be. “I know from experience how hard being the Veep can be.” He held in his laughter. VP was a luxury vacation. Waiting tables in Atlantic City was hard. Waiting tables while selling heroin on the side was harder. Fantastic money, though.

“We’re on a schedule,” Quijano said. "I need you to behave."

"Trust me, being bad is way more fun," Joe said.

“I can call security,” Pence said.

“Weenie,” Joe muttered.

“I, for one, would love to hear more from the sitting VP,” Kaine said. “Getting in touch with this guy has been tough. He was supposed to help me campaign in Ohio but Hillary said he was occupado.”

Thank god Hillary picked someone too stupid to catch a lie. She was a tough broad, even if she refused to run drugs on her Secretary of State trips.

“I thought I could toss a couple questions to these two, find out if they really feel prepared for the job. There are things people never guess are applicable to the job.”

Quijano looked angry but nodded.

“You’re in Tijuana, Mexico. It’s a hot day. You drank all the tequila, but you’re still sober. How much is a dime bag?”

Kaine smiled. “One dime.”

Pence barely glanced at Kaine before he said, “I’m committed, as part of my Christian values, to a drug-free lifestyle. That’s why I try to avoid places where drug-use is rampant, like Mexico. Staying off the ‘wacky weed’ prevents sexual assaults, which is why I always tell college kids to just say no.”

Joe curled his lip in disgust, but before he could say anything, Quijano jumped in. “According to a @buttstuff, Americans between the ages of 15-64 years use cannabis at almost ten times the rate of the people of Mexico.”

Kaine squinted. “We were talking about marijuana?”

Joe couldn’t believe it. “You _never_ tell college kids to avoid drugs. Who are you supposed to sell to?”

Someone in the audience hooted. Joe whipped around, trying to place the sound. They might have a great source.

Quijano, buzzkill of the year, announced that they had to get back on track. She cradled her head in her hands. "If I don't pull this thing off, I'll never get promoted. I can't stay at CBS forever. Half our audience is legally dead."

Joe leaned in. “You’re on a diplomatic mission to Libya. You find out that, while you are there, that beloved eighties songbird Bon Jovi gave a concert for the Gaddafi in early 2000s. How do you take care of the situation?”

Pence looked relieved. Maybe, unlike certain libertarians, he knew where major countries were. “I would like to start by pointing out that the situation in Libya is fragile in their post-Civil War era. I’d also like to say that when you look at Third World countries, you often find the real problem isn’t the lack of food or education but the lack of--”

“Your time is up,” Quijano said.

“I’m at less than a minute in,” Pence said.

“Yes, but I didn’t like where your answer was going, so I elected to stop you.” Quijano looked to Kaine. “You got something to say?”

“I think this is about the importance of education,” Kaine said. “Secretary Clinton and I feel that students aren’t getting enough education on foreign affairs, so we have a nineteen point plan, on our website. It’s aimed at students, but there’s no reason we can’t educate our celebrities as well!”

“Both of you are incorrect,” Joe said. “The correct answer is that you punch that smug Bon Jovi straight in the chompers. When I was a roadie for Quiet Riot, that New Jersey piece took my girl away from me. So I’d punch him in his smug asshole mouth.”

Quijano looked startled. “Do we have a censor? Did anyone bother employing a censor?”

“Last question.” Joe looked straight at the camera. “Who is the biggest weenie in Congress right now?”

Quijano sighed. “Mr Biden, stop talking about Mr Ryan that way.”

Joe laughed. “Diamond Joe out,” he said. If he’d had a hand mic, he would have dropped it. He’d learned something from Barry, after all.

***

“Good job,” Barry said, not even pretending he was looking at the papers on his desk. “You made a mockery of one of our most sacred institutions, the Vice Presidential debate. We get one of those every four years, and you turned it into a circus.” He squinted at Joe for a whole fifteen long seconds before guffawing. “Seriously. That was the best debate I’ve seen since Nixon.”

“Look, I’m not going to shit you, I barely remember what happened.” Joe had taken his veep wannabes off the stage with twenty three minutes left in the debate, and the three of them had gone to a biker bar owned by a guy named Fat Tony. He’d put the Cuervo shots on Pence’s tab, opened after he’d lifted Pence’s wallet, and from there, things got a little hazy. He definitely remembered buying shots (still on Pence’s tab) for a couple’a luscious titted lunch lady types. There was also a moment where Kaine had ordered a light beer and the bartender had given him a whiskey so cheap it could peel paint. Joe had woken up on top of a dumpster behind a Food Lion, a sour taste in his mouth and a phone number with only nine numbers written on his palm. He’d had an eight ball in his pocket.

“Do you feel better about the election?”

“I feel like there’s a strong possibility I’m going to make bank in the days leading up to it,” Joe said, pulling out a fat blunt. “No one wants this reality.”

“That’s some of your grass?”

“Nah, this stuff’s even better.” He pulled out a book of matches, lighting up. The Oval Office was the best place to get blazed, truly. “You want a hit?”

Barry looked around his office. “Listen,” he said. “That’s bringing back some great memories.”

“No paparazzi in here,” Joe said.

“Tell you what. You get me some of your best stuff, and I will smoke up with you. November 9th. When all this shit is over, we’ll smoke up together.”

Joe smiled. "I'm rolling them up in Hillary's nine hundred white papers."


End file.
